


Boys of Summer

by yin_again



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, F/M, M/M, Tiny crossover with Bull Durham Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 10:52:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3647601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yin_again/pseuds/yin_again
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John teaches Sherlock how to give a compliment, how to have sex, how to just say “fuck it” and fall in love, and when to throw a high inside change-up. Sherlock teaches John the age of consent in the State of Virginia. </p><p>Here there be age disparity, baseball jargon, and a truly clichéd title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boys of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> This fic incorporates a couple of characters from the movie "Bull Durham", which belongs completely to Ron Shelton, et. al., and is also one of my favorite movies of all time. You do not have to know the movie to understand this story. You don't have to know anything about baseball, either.

_Dear Mr. Watson,_

_On behalf of the Baltimore Orioles organization, I would like to extend to you an invitation to rejoin the Norfolk Tides AAA team for the upcoming season. You were an asset to the team when you played for us four seasons ago, and we were sorry to see you leave for the Army. As you are back from service, it would be our pleasure to have you with us again._

_Skip Carman is the current General Manager for the team. Former GM Sam Getz retired shortly after your departure. Skip is well aware of the circumstances of your return from combat and is willing to make any adaptations necessary to accommodate you. He finds himself in need of someone of your caliber to assist in the development of one of our brightest pitching prospects. This player is also from the UK and could benefit from your patience and abilities. We anticipate that he could be an elite-level athlete, and want to afford him every opportunity to fulfill his promise via professional guidance and mentorship._

_Attached you will find a one-season contract, which we hope you will wish to sign and rejoin the Orioles organization. If the contract is not to your liking, please have your agent contact me at the number below, and alterations can be made to fit your needs._

_The player you would be working with is Sherlock Holmes._

_Best,_  
Alexander Castile  
Chief Pitching Scout  
Baltimore Orioles

 

 

~*~

John Watson walks into the locker room and sets his bag down on one of the benches. Some guy – staff, not a player – looks him up and down and gives him a dismissive look. He’s clearly not impressed. “Who’re you?”

John sighs and scans the room. He leans against a locker and drawls, “I’m the babysitter.”

The other man sighs and turns toward the back of the room. “Holmes!” he bellows. “Get out here!”

A tall, skinny man – no, boy – steps out from behind another row of lockers. His hair is dark and curly, his eyes eerily light, and he looks excruciatingly bored. He makes a “come on” gesture, rolling his eyes.

The manager opens his mouth, but John gets there first. He steps forward and holds out a hand. He keeps his look steely. “John Watson,” he says. “They hired me to make you less of a raging jackass.”

The kid shakes John’s hand and one side of his mouth pulls up into an almost-smile. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says. “Raging jackass.”

 

 

~*~

John doesn’t have a lot of illusions. He knows that there are three reasons he got this job: nationality, patience, and…pity. He and Sherlock Holmes are the only two Brits playing in the Triple-A farm league. John’s got a reputation for bringing out the best in other players and for endless patience. But it’s the pity that stings. John Watson, war veteran. Two tours in Afghanistan after leaving the league to enlist, followed by a well-placed enemy bullet have put him in the position of having the opportunity to “go out on a high note” rather than not going out at all.

Triple-A ball and a uncontrolled pitcher with talent galore and a unique ability to completely piss off every person he meets – John’s supposed to be the miracle worker before retiring from the game and finding something else to do with the rest of his life. The rest of his life seems bleak, but he’s got 142 games to turn raging jackass Sherlock Holmes into the go-to pitcher for the club. Holmes is nineteen. They say he first threw a baseball in his Terrible Two’s and his abilities progressed from there. Unfortunately, his social skills…didn’t.

 

 

~*~

"Look, I know why you're here. I'm not stupid," Sherlock says. "Two Englishman playing in America, me on my way in, you on your way out. They want you to 'handle' me, brief me on the appropriate clichés and sound bites. Dull."

"Yeah," John says, "you're not wrong. But, I’m not doing this out of the kindness of my heart. You want to play in the show? Fine. I can get you there with at least a chance in hell of succeeding without getting punched in the face so much. If you don't want to play in the show, I'll find another way to go out that doesn’t involve putting up with you, but I'm finishing out this season if it kills us both, you cocky little shit. And when I say ‘both’, I mean ‘you’."

"Interesting," Sherlock says, crossing his arms over his chest. “You really feel that way. It's not just posturing to drag me into line. That's new.”

John rolls his eyes. “How many games were you ejected from last season?”

“Eleven.” Sherlock seems almost proud.

John smirks. “And how many times did you get punched in the face last season?”

“On the field or off?”

John just looks at him.

Sherlock sighs. “On the field, seven, and twice off.”

“I sense a pattern,” John says dryly. “What exactly is it that you do to provoke such reactions in others?”

“Tell the truth,” Sherlock says.

“You...tell the truth.”

“I notice details that allow me to deduce things about people.” Sherlock leans against the lockers. “Some people don't react well to simple truths.”

“Such as...” John says. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t actually want to know, but he’s got to start _somewhere_ in figuring this kid out.

“I told a referee that his wife was cheating on him and that she was going to leave him the next week. I told another player that the reason he acted out with blatant homophobia was that he was sexually attracted to several of his teammates, one of whom would be amenable to such an advance.” Sherlock sounds bored.

John blinks a couple of times. “How do you know this stuff?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I told you. I pay attention. I observe people and details and deduce facts about them.”

“Prove it,” John says. “Tell me all about me.” At Sherlock’s look, he adds, “I promise not to punch you.”

Sherlock sighs, then gives John a head-to-toe sweeping glance before blinking a few times, then nods.

“You were wounded in Afghanistan. The shot was to your left shoulder. Bone and muscle involvement with post-operative complications resulting in extensive scarring that you feel is ugly and disfiguring. Your limp is at least partly psychosomatic, you weren't injured there. The rest is the normal wear-and-tear expected for a catcher. You are bisexual, though mostly sleep with women and are considered to be quite the cocksman. You evaluated and dismissed me as a potential lover within the first 90 seconds of our acquaintance, partially because of the student/teacher roles we are working within, but mostly because of the differences in our ages. Despite that, you remain attracted to me, as I am to you.” He pauses. “So, do you want to punch me?”

John doesn’t want to punch him. He actually really wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss the smug little smile right off Sherlock Holmes' pretty face.

“Reconsidering the attraction, then,” Sherlock says, almost sounding...wistful.

“No,” John says. “Everything you said is true, and especially the bit about the age difference. You're ninteen, I'm thirty four. If you want me, you probably have daddy issues, and if I want you, then I'm a pervert. At least, that would be the general assumption.”

“You care what other people think that much?”

“They'd have me out of here in two minutes flat,” John says, “and it's like I told you - I want to finish out this season as a pretty good player who had a pretty good run, not as the guy who fucked Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, and he sounds less cocky than he did before. “I guess that makes sense,” he says. “Then again, maybe you'll change your mind.” The sly smile is back.

“Why do you say that?” John says. “The subject is closed. Our association is strictly on the field. As it should be.”

Sherlock grins and winks at him. “Except...”

“Except what?”

“Except that we're roommates.” Sherlock turns and walks, no _struts_ , back toward his locker, throwing, “See you at home, John,” over his shoulder. “The address is 221b Baker Street.”

John thinks that he is so, so screwed.

“Watson!” he hears his name bellowed from the office area to the side of the locker room. It's time to meet his boss and find out what he's really supposed to be doing with Sherlock Holmes. John banishes from his mind any thoughts about what he'd like to be doing _to_ him.

He is so, so screwed.

 

 

~*~

John holds three fingers down between his legs and taps his thigh twice.

From the mound, Sherlock shakes his head “no”.

John taps his thigh again. Again, Sherlock shakes his head.

Goddamn it, John thinks. This is _not_ the time for Sherlock to stop trusting his fucking signs. The guy at the plate is tired, his stance is loose, he’s got too much weight on his heels. He’ll swing like a bell if Sherlock would just throw a high inside change-up. It’s a simple pitch that Sherlock could throw in his goddamn sleep, and Sherlock’s out there looking to bring the heat three-quarters through a once-in-a-lifetime game.

John stands and pushes his mask up onto his head. He nods to the ump and heads out to the mound.

“What the hell, Sherlock? High. Inside. Change-up. Am I doing the sign language equivalent of stuttering?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I know what I’m doing, John. I’m well aware of this batter’s weaknesses, and I am also well aware of my own abilities. I’ve got it under control.”

“Look here, you arrogant, high-handed…” John takes a deep breath. “Look, just throw the pitch. I’m sure I can find a way to make it worth your while. Besides throwing a _goddamn no-hitter_ , of course! Though that really ought to be enough.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes again. “I doubt you have anything that I want,” he says flippantly.

John’s vision goes white for a moment, and he knows he’s about to do something stupid. And he knows that he’s not going to stop himself from doing it, either. He moves in close, stepping up on to the pitcher’s mound so Sherlock isn’t looming over him quite so much. He gestures Sherlock to tilt his head down, allowing John to speak…no, growl…directly into his ear.

“You are right on the edge of a no-hitter, Sherlock. Three more innings and you can rack up your first no-hitter. Don’t shake me off. I know these guys. I’m closer and I can see what their weaknesses are. I’m giving you the pitches you need to throw.”

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock says, sighing. “Boring, but fine.”

John fists his hand in the front of Sherlock’s jersey and pulls him closer. “You need some motivation? You need a way to keep it interesting? I know that I _do_ have something you want. How about this?” John’s on a roll, and his mouth keeps going even as his brain is _shouting_ at him to shut up. “You clear these next nine batters, and I’ll give you what you’ve been angling for since the day we met. I will take you home and spread you out and take you apart little by little. I’ll touch every inch of you. I’ll tease you and hold you back, and when I finally let you come you’ll be hoarse from screaming and you will black the fuck out.”

John lets go of Sherlock’s shirt and pushes him back a step. “Less boring?” he says. “Maybe worth your time?” Sherlock just looks back at him, shocked, blushing from his hairline down into the neck of his jersey. He doesn’t answer, and John stalks back to the catcher’s box.

Play resumes, and John signals Sherlock for the change-up again. Sherlock nods and throws the pitch as asked. The batter hits a line drive right between second base and the shortstop for a double.

 

 

~*~

_Oh, wow! Holmes had a no-hitter working before Watson came out to the mound. I don’t know what Watson said, but it seems to have had an opposite effect, right Biff?_

_“Absolutely, Dave.”_

_Holmes is usually ice-cold – that seems to be his default setting, right Biff?_

_“Absolutely, Dave.”_

_But I haven’t seen him look like this – upset, rattled even. A new one for you, too, Biff?_

_“Absolutely, Dave.”_

_I don’t know what it’s all about either. Well, the count’s at 2 and 3, and it looks like Holmes still hasn’t gotten his composure back – both of those strikes were a little shaky. Oh gosh! Holmes has walked the batter! He almost never does that, right Biff?_

_“Absolutely, Dave.”_

_I mean, he’s not exactly Mr. Congeniality, but he can really throw the ball. I’d love to know what Watson said to him. How about you, Biff?_

_“Absholutely, Dave.”_

_Manager Skip Carman is heading to the mound. Looks like they’ll pull Holmes. They’ve got Trueman doing a quick warmup in the bullpen. Holmes usually pitches until the bottom of the seventh or top of the eighth before he comes out to save his arm but still get that all-important W. Coming out here at the bottom of the sixth won’t hurt him, unless Trueman turns in a spectacular performance. Not likely to happen. Trueman’s a strong pitcher, but he’s not the most creative guy. He’ll do what Watson says and the Tides will wrap this game up, right Biff?_

_“Absholutely, Dave.”_

_For fuck’s sake, Biff. You think you’d like some coffee with your bourbon?_

_“Absholutely, Dave.”_

_**You guys are aware that your mics are live, right?** _

_Oh, hey, well there, folks. Sorry about that. Bit of a mix-up, right Biff?_

_“Absholutely, Dave.”_

 

 

~*~

The Tides take the game 3-1, and Sherlock is long-gone when John gets to the locker room. He grabs his stuff and walks the four blocks back to Baker Street, and his knees let him know about every step. Storming out to the mound was a bad idea. Saying…god, all the things he said to Sherlock, a very bad idea. John is completely unable to imagine what’s going to happen when he gets home. This whole thing with Sherlock is getting out of hand, and John knows he’s going to have to do the right thing. Whatever that is.

Sherlock’s on the couch staring at the ceiling when John comes in. He’s barefoot and wearing pajama bottoms, a tee shirt and his dressing gown. His expression is blank. John doesn’t bother to speak. Sherlock is _thinking_ , and John may as well be invisible.

 

“I’m not your dog,” Sherlock says when John’s done with his shower and is in the kitchen making tea. Sherlock doesn’t even raise his voice, but the words cut.

John brings the tea out. Sherlock is sitting on the sofa, his feet on the floor and his elbows resting on his knees. John sets a cup of tea on the table in front of Sherlock and retreats with his own to his chair.

“You don’t get to use my attraction to you against me, especially not on the field.” Sherlock doesn’t look at John, so John is free to stare a bit. Sherlock’s hair is messy, and he’s pale again. He looks so tired and so young that John’s heart clenches. Before he can move, Sherlock speaks again.

“I’ve been in this game for half my life, and I haven’t been treated that way in ten years. I was nine, and the motivation was ice cream.” Sherlock sighs. “I won the game, but I didn’t get my ice cream. That’s the last time I trusted anyone. Well, until you.”

It’s John’s turn to sigh. Sherlock doesn’t need to say any more. Pitchers are notoriously high-strung, and Sherlock’s been relying on himself since before he needed to shave. The on-field relationship between pitcher and catcher is one of trust, and John has all but destroyed that. The worst part is that it could have serious repercussions for Sherlock. Sherlock’s the one with all eyes trained on him. John’s just a has-been – or maybe a never-was – but Sherlock is being closely watched by the club. One major stall or setback could keep him in the Minors indefinitely, could end his career, could make him like John.

“I’m sorry,” John says. It’s all he can give, and it’s not much.

Sherlock looks at him then. His eyes are cold silver. John would say that they’re solid ice, but there’s something…there’s hurt that Sherlock is trying to camouflage. “Your apology is accepted,” he says tonelessly, then stands and strides haughtily away. John gets it: what he’s done has been forgiven, but it’s a world away from being forgotten.

 

 

~*~

_Well, folks, that’s another side retired. Sherlock Holmes has played this game nearly flawlessly, but his heart just doesn’t seem to be in it. The substitution of Gregson for Watson seems to be working just fine, but the game just feels…mechanical. You think so, Biff?_

_“Absolutely, Dave.”_

_But, hey – Holmes is pitching well, the game’s in the bag, and Watson probably needs the break anyway. Bad knees, right Biff?_

_“Absolutely, Dave.”_

_Word is that there are going to be eyes from the Orioles hanging around sometime in the next few weeks. I don’t know what Holmes is going to look like to them – he can do his job, but they’ll want more. Holmes has major-league talent, but does he have the fire the club needs?_

_“Absolutely, Dave.”_

_That was a rhetorical question, Biff._

_“Absolutely, Dave.”_

 

 

 

~*~

John’s been on the bench since “the incident”. Sherlock has been pitching his regular schedule except for going in as relief at the end of a _very_ close game to throw three pitches – all strikes – to clinch a win.

All three of the other catchers have rotated twice, and the stint of not playing has brought John clarity regarding his status in the organization. He’s _Sherlock’s_ dog. This is not news to John, but it still stings. He figures if it’s another four or five games before Sherlock’s interested in working with him again, John will find himself sitting in Skip’s office getting the “thanks-for-helping-there’s-the-door” speech. If that happens, John’s baseball career is over, but he thinks he’d rather have Sherlock look him in the eye again than play in even one more game.

 

 

~*~

_Well, it’s been a helluva series against the Syracuse Cheifs for the Tides. It’s been a pitcher’s game, with Sherlock Holmes facing Jim Moriarty in two of six outings. Holmes has been a **machine** , taking signs from Watson and generally blowing the doors off the batters. But Moriarty has been right there along with him. It’s like two sides of the same coin, with Moriarty practically mirroring Holmes, even down to using the same pitches – even Holmes’ signature split-finger fastball. Moriarty must have been working on that in the off-season; it was his weakest pitch not too long ago. Right, Biff?_

_“Absolutely, Dave.”_

_Holmes has played seven or seven and a half innings in each of his games, and has racked up two more Ws on his stat sheets. Moriarty’s not happy with the two Ls on his. I gotta say, we’re getting a few more spectators in the seats when these two are facing off. But Skip Carman is playing conservatively, keeping Holmes on the bench at least every other game as usual. Gotta keep that Hollywood arm rested, right Biff?_

_“Absolutely, Dave.”_

_Series stands at three games all, and tomorrow night will bring this long road to an end. Holmes and Moriarty are the starters, and it’s going to be a real humdinger! Right Biff?_

_“Absolutely, Dave.”_

 

 

~*~

“You’re John Watson, right?”

The woman slides onto the barstool next to John. She’s pretty in a flaky way – tight skirt, loose blouse that highlights her cleavage, tousled, wavy hair and wide green eyes that dart around the bar as if taking a head-count.

“Yes,” John says.

She pats his arm. “You poor baby.”

John glances at her and quirks one eyebrow before taking another sip of his drink.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she says, and there’s real sympathy in her voice. “That boy’s a handful, I bet.”

John laughs a little. “He’s…complicated. He sometimes has…issues.”

She throws back her head and laughs at that. “Oh, honey. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have issues, he has _subscriptions_. I’m Annie Savoy, by the way.”

John just gives her a polite nod. He’s heard about Annie. It seems that she chooses one player a season to be some sort of “protégé” – a protégé with benefits. They say she believes that she can influence their careers. She claims to have put three guys in the show in the last three years.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of me,” she says. “Folks say I’m crazy, but you can’t argue with results. Nuke LaLoosh was one of mine.” LaLoosh was called up season before last, and turned in a good performance as a relief pitcher before he was traded to Atlanta.

John gestures at the barman for another drink. “Buy you one?” he asks.

Annie orders a Seabreeze and neither of them speaks until they’ve each tasted their drink.

“I know you’re not looking for me,” John says, giving her a sideways look. “Only way I’m going to the show these days is through the gate with a ticket.”

She pats his arm sympathetically. “That’s true,” she says. “But I don’t always have to have a student. Can’t a girl just spend some time with a good-looking man with a stellar reputation?” The pat turns into a caress.

John has a sudden thought. “He turned you down, didn’t he? Sherlock, I mean.”

“Turned me down flat and told me a couple of home truths in the bargain. He wasn’t wrong, and I decided to take a season off.” She sighs, but her hand doesn’t stop moving.

John snorts. “He does that. It can get under your skin if you let it.” He finishes his drink and turns to face her fully. He gives her his sweetest smile, and lets his hand drop “accidentally” to brush against her knee. “A stellar reputation?”

Annie picks up John’s hand and places it firmly on her thigh. “Three continents, they say. I’ve got to admit, I’ve been thinking about doing a little traveling.”

Her smile is sultry, and she’s sweet and easy, and most of all, she’s _not_ Sherlock. “Let’s take a little trip then, shall we?” John says.

 

 

~*~

It’s late when John gets home, sated and relaxed and ready for his own bed.

“Annie? Really, John? I hope you used protection; many a player has taken a ride on that particular bike.” Sherlock’s in the dark, perched on the arm of the sofa and staring out the window. He’s exactly where John left him some five hours before.

John shrugs out of his jacket and throws it over the back of the chair. “Yes, Annie. Yes, protection. And yes, I know that and don’t care. How was _your_ evening?” Sherlock doesn’t answer, and John wants to laugh at him a little. He knows he’s baiting Sherlock. It’s kind of fun to have the upper hand, even though Sherlock’s pretending his hardest that he has control of the situation.

John stretches up onto his toes, making a little satisfied sound as he relaxes. “I believe I’ll go to bed – to sleep this time. Don’t forget we have practice at ten. I know how teenagers like to sleep in.” John leaves it at that and heads off to the bedroom, smiling. Once he’s in bed, he has a pang of conscience about being an asshole to Sherlock, but then he thinks better of it and stretches his tired body out under the covers and sleeps.

 

 

~*~

John sees it a few minutes into the warmup. Sherlock’s not fully extending his arm in the stretch phase of his pitches. Sherlock rubs his elbow and frowns.

“Locker room, right now,” John says, standing up from his crouch. Sherlock nods and heads to the locker room. Following him, John’s glad that Sherlock is meticulous about the soundness of his arm. Some pitchers would insist that they were fine and continue to practice, risking further injury. Sherlock knows the anatomy and knows when something is off.

John sticks his head into Skip’s office. “Sherlock’s got something going on with his elbow. It’s just a little bit of inflammation – pronator teres, most likely - but call Devlin anyway.”

Skip looks at John over the top of his reading glasses. “That your diagnosis, _Doctor_?” John walks away as Skip sighs and picks up the phone.

On the way back to the locker room, John goes to the ice machine and fills a bag. Sherlock’s already got his jersey off, waiting in his tee shirt and cradling his elbow.

“Let me see it,” John says. He puts the ice down, then gently takes hold of Sherlock’s arm, flexing the joint and carefully palpating it. “Pronator teres,” John says, nodding. “As I thought.”

“Your professional opinion?” Sherlock says. “Where did you go to medical school?”

John meets Sherlock’s eyes, knowing that his own have gone cold. “Afghanistan,” he says.

“You assisted a medic,” Sherlock says, not questioning.

John nods, then busies himself with the ice pack. “Assisted for a while, then had to take over.”

“The medic was killed.” Again, Sherlock’s tone is not questioning. “How long were you the de-facto doctor?”

John doesn’t look up. “Almost five months. But there weren’t a lot of teres injuries there. I’ve caught for ten years – you learn the anatomy.” He turns toward the door when he hears footsteps in the hall.

The team physician – a crusty old country doctor who prefers to be called Red – lumbers into the locker room. Red extends and bends Sherlock’s arm, then shakes his head. “Pronator teres inflammation. Very mild. Bench,” he says. “Ice.”

John positions the bag of ice around Sherlock’s arm and tapes it in place with duct tape.

Red trundles off and comes back a few minutes later, trailing behind Skip.

“Holmes, you okay?” He makes as if to touch the arm, but Sherlock shrugs him off and says, “Mild inflammation of the pronator teres. No tissue damage. 24 hours rest.”

“ _36_ hours rest,” John and Red say in unison, and Sherlock frowns at them.

Skip grimaces. “I’ll redo the roster.” He stalks off, the doctor still trailing him.

 

 

~*~

“Takeaway for dinner?” Sherlock says grumpily.

“We’ll get something at the park,” John says. “Now get dressed; the game starts in 45 minutes.”

Sherlock stares quizzically at him. “We’re neither of us playing tonight. Why would we go to the park?”

“Team spirit, camaraderie. As in, you don’t have any. You can have two more ibuprofen, and we’ll put a couple of icepacks into your sling. Get dressed. Call me if you need help.” John strides into the kitchen to find the pill bottle.

“Team spirit?” Sherlock says the words as if they taste bad in his mouth. “Why would I want to have that?”

John hands Sherlock the two pills and holds a glass of water expectantly. “Sherlock, you’re a magnificent player and a crap team member. We’re going to the park to support our teammates. You will go, you will not sulk, and you will – unironically and without sarcasm – give _someone_ a compliment tonight.”

“You make excellent tea,” Sherlock says.

John rolls his eyes. “Not me, you ass.” He stands there until Sherlock takes the painkillers. “There’s a whole human race out there, and tonight you get to join them.”

 

When they first enter the dugout, half the team looks up at them, open-mouthed.

“Well, that’s a first,” Skip says. “You two stay out of the way, or I’ll send you out to the bleachers with the rest of the yahoos.”

Sherlock sighs and slumps down onto the bench while John greets some other players.

Jacobs, one of the outfielders, slaps John on the back. “Hear you’re tryin’ to take Red’s job,” he says, laughing good-naturedly. “They’re saying you did some work on the Hollywood arm.”

“Not me,” John says. “I’ve just been around long enough to know what a little teres inflammation looks like.”

“Oh, man,” another player, Houston, says, looking at Sherlock. “That can be nasty. You feelin’ okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock says sullenly. John looks at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock sighs. “Thank you for asking,” he says, sounding exactly like a child who’s been prodded by a parent to be polite.

“Good,” Houston says, then turns away when Skip returns to the dugout and gestures for the starters to move in close.

“Well done,” John says, sitting down beside Sherlock. “You were polite and you even survived it.”

Sherlock just snorts at him.

John pats Sherlock’s knee. “I’ll just go get us some supper. Try not to get us kicked out, okay?” Sherlock doesn’t respond, but John thinks he might see the tiniest hint of a smile creasing the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

 

“Left foot,” Sherlock says to Houston as the other player flops down onto the bench after striking out. “Fifteen degrees.”

Houston blinks at him. “Huh?”

“If you turn your left foot out fifteen degrees and lift your elbow to line up with the point of your shoulder, you won’t fall for their pitcher’s change-up. He’s getting you right on the top edge of your strike zone, and neither that umpire’s astigmatism nor his preference for calling balls high works in your favor.”

Houston gapes. Sherlock sighs and gestures for the other player to stand. “Take your stance,” Sherlock, like Houston is a small, not-very-clever child. Houston does, and Sherlock uses his right foot to adjust the angle of Houston’s left. “There,” he says. “Elbow up and direct your swing down a bit.”

“I…hey…what…” Houston says, but Sherlock has already moved on to rearranging the ice packs inside his sling. Houston wanders off, his mouth opening and closing like a guppy’s. He bumps into another player because he’s staring down at his feet.

John appears then with an armload of food. “Budge over,” he says. When Sherlock does, John unloads the food onto the bench and hands Sherlock a Coke. “Everything okay?” Sherlock doesn’t bother to answer.

In the third inning, Houston hits a double that brings in a run. Houston himself scores on another player’s triple. He comes bounding into the dugout and stops in front of Sherlock, a massive grin splitting his face. “You,” he says, energetically mussing Sherlock’s hair, “are a _genius!_ You’re like some sort of magician…or a detective!”

Sherlock frowns and bats Houston’s hands away, but John can see that the tiny ghost of a smile is back on Sherlock’s lips.

The Tides win the game, and the dugout is abuzz with the excitement of their triumph. Houston’s been telling anyone who will listen about Sherlock’s advice paying off. Some of the players look at him appraisingly, and Sherlock looks back at them blankly. None of them approach him. As he passes, Houston lightly claps his hand on Sherlock’s uninjured shoulder. “Thanks again, man!”

Sherlock looks back at him. “Good hit,” he says.

John beams at him.

 

 

~*~

When Sherlock wants something, he is relentless. John is learning this in a way that is killing him on many levels. Since John slept with Annie, Sherlock has ruthlessly exploited everything he knows about John. And he knows a lot.

He’s figured out that John is attracted to the long, pale line of Sherlock’s throat. He wears old tee shirts that are stretched at the neck enough to reveal his collarbones, and he finds any excuse he can to lift his chin or tilt his head to allow his dark hair to fall away to emphasize his throat. John has to swallow hard and look anywhere else.

Sherlock has figured out that John likes to make chivalrous gestures, so he always manages to position himself in such a way that John will hold doors for him. John tries desperately not to, but his palm unerringly finds the small of Sherlock’s back as he ushers him through.

Much less subtly, Sherlock has taken to walking through the flat after his showers in just a towel, somehow always “forgetting” to take clean clothes with him into the bathroom. Sherlock’s feet are usually bare; he wears pajama bottoms that hang low on his hips and tee shirts that are too short to cover a strip of skin that includes the first couple of inches of the soft line of hair that dips from his navel downward to disappear beneath wash-soft cotton.

He bends over more than necessary. He asks John to work non-existent knots out of his shoulder or upper arm, stripping off his shirt to “help”. He takes to sucking candy, or nibbling on the end of a pen he’s writing with. He drinks everything through a straw. He stays out in the sitting room late, looking sleepy-eyed at John and stumbling on his way to bed so John will support him.

It’s devastating.

It’s merciless.

It’s working.

 

 

~*~

They get a few down days after a disappointing 2-4 road series against Toledo, but nobody’s very happy. Sherlock pitches one of the two games they win, but it’s a sloppy performance at best. Their better shortstop manages to fall on his ass and bruise his tailbone, five players get food poisoning from the local diner’s meatloaf, and, on their third free day, it starts raining.

John thinks that such a confluence of events would normally have Sherlock either climbing the walls or deep into his “thinking” fugue. But, no, that would be too easy. Instead, Sherlock slowly but surely steps up his campaign of driving John crazy.

It’s late, and the rain is sheeting down and has been for hours. The storm seems to be designed to demoralize. The rain will almost clear, only to rebound into the steady, soaking sort of downpour that waterlogs the soil and guarantees that the field will be unplayable for yet another day. John is bored, irritable, horny…and Sherlock is just so fucking beautiful.

John can’t stay in the sitting room with Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa, his shirt rucked up nearly to his ribs, showing off the slim curve of his waist and the line of his hip. When John goes to the kitchen to make tea, he returns to find Sherlock lying on his belly on the couch. He’s got a book in front of him, but John’s pretty sure he’s only pretending to read. Sherlock is situated so that most of his lower back is bare, and his pajama bottoms are artfully pulled down to expose the very top of the cleft of his ass.

John sets his mug down and turns away. He isn’t tired, but he’s going the hell to bed. His nerves are frayed from almost a week of Sherlock coupling subtle flirting with very _unsubtle_ displays of smooth, pale skin. John can’t decide if he wants to get a six-pack and go hide in the flooded dugout at the ballpark or hunt down Annie and get laid to take the edge off. Neither idea seems very appealing.

In the bedroom, John strips down to his jeans and tosses his clothes into his laundry basket. He scrubs his hands over his face, then blows out a deep sigh. Bed. Sleep. Oblivion. Escape from Sherlock for a few hours. Yes.

John’s wiping the last of the toothpaste from his mouth when motion catches his eye. Sherlock. Leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom. Sherlock is wearing only his pajama bottoms, and his right hand dips under the waistband. He’s hard. Oh, fuck, he’s hard. And he’s lightly stroking himself, head tilted back and eyes fluttering shut.

“Sherlock,” John growls, his hands twisting the towel he’s still holding. “Stop.”

Sherlock’s hand keeps moving, and his eyes open. They’re glittering, narrowed. “No,” he drawls.

John throws the towel to the floor and charges. He gets one glimpse of Sherlock’s startled face before he spins him and presses him face-first against the wall. John holds Sherlock up with his body and kicks his feet apart, his hands on Sherlock’s hips.

“You think you know what you’re doing, don’t you?” John rasps out against Sherlock’s shoulder. “You _watch_ , you _see_ , but not this. Not my hands on you, with _me_ in charge. You push and you push, and you have no idea what you’re playing with.” As he speaks, he grinds his hips up and against Sherlock’s ass. John’s been rock-hard since he laid eyes on Sherlock across the hall.

It probably hurts – Sherlock’s ass is covered only by thin cotton, and John’s still wearing heavy denim. But, fuck it – Sherlock deserves it. Sherlock _earned_ it.

“I said ‘no’,” John says, still thrusting, one hand reaching up to cover one of Sherlock’s on the wall. “I said ‘no’, and you kept on. You couldn’t let it be. You had to push – you had to see how far you could push me. D’you think this is far enough, Sherlock? Is this what you want? You want me fucking you into the wall?”

John worms his hand underneath Sherlock’s and grins when fingers close tightly over his own. Sherlock’s chest is heaving with high, thready moans. No words, just noises - _beautiful noises_ that go straight to John’s cock. But, god, he’s furious. This isn’t…he shouldn’t…Sherlock can’t…

“You’ve been under my skin since I got here. You _knew_ I didn’t want this to happen, you _knew_ it and you didn’t care. I ran out of here, I went to goddamn Annie…” At this point, John’s pretty sure he hears Sherlock mutter “bitch” against the wall, and it makes him smile and thrust harder.

John shakes Sherlock’s hand off his own and grips Sherlock’s hair to pull his head closer, so he can speak against his ear. “I fucked her, you know,” he says, his voice low and even. Sherlock says something - maybe “whore”? - against the wall again, breathless.

“I fucked her twice. The first time I didn’t think about anything but her cunt – about being inside her and getting off. I made her scream, Sherlock.” John’s fingers bite harder into Sherlock’s hip, dragging Sherlock down against his cock over and over.

“But the second time, yeah.” John uses his thighs to open Sherlock’s legs even farther. “I put her on her hands and knees and buggered her. And when I came in her ass, I had to bite my own lip to not…say…your…name.” John thrusts roughly against Sherlock on each word, then sinks his teeth into the cords of Sherlock’s neck.

Shaking, moaning, and with John’s name on his lips, Sherlock comes.

John rides it out, still grinding up as hard as he can. Sherlock starts sliding down the wall, and John eases him down before standing over him. Sherlock settles onto the rug and slowly raises his head to look up at John. His eyes are hazy and a bit shell-shocked, but John sees the unmistakable gleam of triumph there.

John slams the heel of his hand into the wall and turns away.

 

 

~*~

When Sherlock comes out to the kitchen, John is slumped down on the floor with his back against the refrigerator. He’s holding a can of Coke against his forehead like an ice pack. He glances up.

Sherlock is fresh from the shower, the ends of his wet hair dripping onto the shoulders of his Orioles tee shirt. He’s wearing loose jeans and he’s barefoot. He slides down to sit next to John, wincing a bit as his ass hits the floor. He takes the can of Coke, opens it, and drinks most of it in one go.

“Get off the cross, John,” Sherlock says mildly. “You aren’t a child molester, you haven’t scarred me for life, and you haven’t given me some sort of psycho-sexual complex that’ll keep me in therapy until I’m fifty.” Sherlock finishes the soda and tosses the can into the trash bin with effortless accuracy. “If it makes you feel any better, the age of consent in Virginia is eighteen. I looked it up the day we met.”

“It doesn’t, actually,” John says, staring up at the ceiling. “Make me feel better. That whole year of clearance most certainly does not make me feel better.”

“Well, it’s sixteen at home. That’s better.”

“Do you actually think this is helping?” John asks. “Do you think a discussion about the age of consent in various countries is helping? Because if you do, your definition of ‘helping’ is pretty fucked up.”

Sherlock scoffs at him. “Are you going to act like this every time we have sex? If so, it’s already become tedious.”

“We didn’t…we aren’t going to…” John splutters. “We did _not_ have sex!”

“I think that I consider anything that makes me come so hard my knees buckle counts as sex,” Sherlock muses. “What about you?”

John puts his hands over his face. Yes, he’s still freaking out, and, yes, he still thinks he overstepped by a _mile_ , but, then…he made Sherlock’s _knees buckle_. He gave Sherlock the orgasm by which all his other orgasms will be measured. All his other orgasms _ever_.

“Jesus,” John finally says. “I came at you like that hoping to scare you off.”

“Really, John,” Sherlock drawls, one eyebrow lifting. “Have you ever yet known me to be frightened by anything?”

And the answer to that is a resounding “no”. John’s seen Sherlock dodge a well-deserved punch without even a change in facial expression. He’s seen Sherlock step into a line drive aimed at his head to snatch it from the air for an out. Sherlock has shrugged off Skip’s worst diatribes – the ones that drive bigger, meaner, older players to the verge of tears. Sherlock had even made the mistake of trying to wake John from a nightmare by touching him. Even on the floor under a barely-coherent John with a forearm pressed hard to his throat, Sherlock had looked only curious.

“Okay, so…no,” John says.

Sherlock smirks at him. “Think it through next time.”

John rolls his eyes. “You started this on purpose, didn’t you, you sneaky little bastard. You goad me into action, then use my perfectly reasonable remorse to try to guilt me into an ill-advised sexual relationship with you. This was all some kind of plan, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock schools his expression and blinks wide, innocent eyes. “Of course not, John,” he says. “That would be manipulative, and we know what sorts of things that can lead to, don’t we?”

“Touché,” John says. He leans in just enough that their arms touch, and Sherlock lays his head onto John’s shoulder and sighs. John presses a kiss to damp curls, then tilts his head down to let his temple graze the same spot. “You hungry?” he asks.

“No,” Sherlock says. “Can we just go to bed? It’s 2 a.m., and practice is at 9:30.”

John nods against Sherlock’s head. “Yeah. Go ahead. I’ll tidy up a bit and get the lights.”

Sherlock looks doubtful, but he goes.

When John finally goes into the bedroom at 3:30, Sherlock is tangled up in the covers of John’s bed, snoring softly. John gets into Sherlock’s bed across the room. It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

 

 

 

~*~

John wakes up to a slight movement of the mattress and the smell of tea. Sherlock settles himself at the end of the bed cross-legged and sips from the mug in his hand before passing it to John, who drinks. It’s light with a touch of sugar; he’s surprised that Sherlock – who takes his black and teeth-crackingly sweet – would even touch it.

“Hey,” John rasps. “What time is it?”

“Seven,” Sherlock says, taking the mug back and drinking, a small grimace on his face. “Why did you sleep over here?”

John rubs a hand over his face. “I wanted to think, and you’re distracting.”

“Hmmmm. How can I be distracting when sleeping?”

“Because you’re beautiful,” John says, too drowsy to think before he speaks. He looks up and is instantly glad he didn’t censor himself. Sherlock’s cheeks and neck color with an actual _blush_.

Keeping his eyes downcast, Sherlock mutters, “In the dark.”

John smiles and nudges Sherlock with his foot. “It’s not like I’d forget what you look like. Now let me up so I can get a shower.”

“Room for two?” Sherlock’s blush has receded and his composure returned enough to be cheeky.

John regards him seriously. “I’m not sure to what extent our relationship has changed in that area, so no.”

Sherlock’s smile dims a little. “We’ve become lovers. Isn’t that enough change for you?”

“Is that what we are? That word seems rather more equal than last night would suggest.” John is dead serious. What they’d done last night was _not_ making love, and John was not happy about it.

“John, I already said it was fine…”

“And I know that it wasn’t,” John says. “Not with me. I was…angry, and rough, and downright mean, and that’s not me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock drops a hand onto John’s ankle and squeezes lightly. “John…”

John pulls his foot away. “Don’t push, Sherlock, please. I know where you stand. I just don’t know where I do.” John rolls out of bed. “Showers. Then practice. Give me some time, okay?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows are drawn together, but he nods. Then he says something under his breath.

“What?” John says gently.

Sherlock looks down at his lap. “I said, I think you’re beautiful, too.”

It’s John’s turn to blush, and when he walks past Sherlock, he stops. He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s bowed head, staying there for a moment to breathe in the scent of Sherlock’s hair. Yes, things have changed. Whether for good or ill? That’s anybody’s guess.

 

 

~*~

Sherlock, against all odds, really does give him some time. He gives him exactly three days.

On day four, John _is_ hiding in the dugout with a six-pack in the rain. He couldn’t stay at the flat. The rain had once again kept them inside and bored, and Sherlock had gone into his sex-kitten routine to try to hurry John’s decision-making along. John, knowing that he was weakening, had quietly slipped out when Sherlock fell asleep on the sofa.

John sighs, looking down at the bottle in his hand. He sighs again, then tips the bottle up and drinks. When he lowers it, he catches the sight of motion on the field. A figure in yellow rain slicker and hat is coming through left field. When they reach second base, they turn and walk the baseline to third, then back again to second. After a couple of circuits, John, squinting through the rain, recognizes Annie.

She walks to third and, instead of turning back, walks to home plate.

“Hey,” she says. She steps into the dugout and takes off her hat, shaking her hair out. “This is a pretty good thinking place. You got a spare beer?”

“Hello,” John says in reply, handing her a bottle after twisting off the cap. “Am I intruding? On your thinking place, I mean.”

“The thinking isn’t really going so well.” She brushes some water off her slicker. “Walking the bases backward is usually a sure-fire method,” she says, “but…not so much today.”

It’s John’s turn to sigh. “Deep thoughts?” he says. “Life, love, the nature of the universe kind of things?”

She smiles ruefully. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” John says. “You want to try it again and let me walk with you?”

She agrees, and they leave the dugout. She leaves her slicker, citing the warmth of the rain. They walk the bases backward – home to third to second to first and back to home. On the third time around, Annie breaks her silence.

“It’s all Sherlock Holmes’ fault,” she says finally. John startles, about to ask her _how she knows that_ , when she continues. “He’s why I don’t have a ‘pet player’, as he said, to…distract me.”

“Oh,” John says. “Distract you from what?”

She wipes the water from her face with one hand. “Life, love, the nature of the universe kind of thing. Mostly the ‘love’ part, unfortunately.”

“Having it or not having it?” In John’s experience, those are the only two kinds of deep thoughts regarding love.

“Remembering it? I guess.” She wipes her face again, and John figures that there may be a few tears mixed in with the rain, though her voice doesn’t give anything away.

John, in what seems to be becoming a habit, speaks with out thinking. “One of your players? Oh, god that was rude. Sorry.”

She shrugs and smiles, forgiving him. “Oh, honey,” she says. “Crash Davis was a hell of a player and many other things, but I don’t think I could say he was ‘mine’. Not for long, anyway.”

“Crash Davis?” John said. “I’ve heard that name. Isn’t he a catcher?”

“Yeah,” Annie says. “A good one. He switched out to managing a couple years ago. He’s an assistant up in Illinois, with Kane County.”

“Oh,” John says. He can figure that one out. Davis is in Illinois and Annie is here – someone made a choice.

“He wanted me to go up there, and I…well, I guess I didn’t want to change my life. I think I might have made a mistake, not taking a chance.” Annie wipes her face again, and John’s even more sure there are tears there.

John opens his mouth to answer, but Annie gives him an evil grin and pushes his good shoulder, making John slide in the mud and nearly overbalance. “Tag, you’re it,” she says, then takes off across the field, laughter ringing out behind her.

John knows a deflecting maneuver when he sees one, but _tag_. In the _rain_. Oh, yeah. He goes after her.

She’s quick, that’s for sure, but she makes a critical error as she’s rounding third – looking back to see where John is. Her foot slides, and John lunges, taking them both down into the thick, slippery mud. She shrieks with laughter, and they grapple playfully for a while.

John wiggles away, then pushes her hip to make her slide backward a bit. “Tag,” he says, “You’re it!”

She catches him at second and jumps on his back, causing him to stumble before losing his balance and going down again. This time, the wrestling match is over more quickly, ending with them both lying in the mud, laughing weakly.

“That was ridiculous,” he gasps. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“No,” Annie says, her tone light yet serious. “That would be letting go of something special.” She tilts her head toward the dugout. Where Sherlock stands, his hands in his pockets and his head down. She brushes a little mud from John’s face. “You go on over to that young man and take a chance. I’m going home to book a flight to Chicago.”

She gets up and holds a hand out. John takes it and levers himself to his feet. “You’re an amazing woman, Annie Savoy,” he says. “Go show Crash how much he deserves you.”

Annie pulls her hand back. “You go get your fella, John,” she says, “and I’ll go get mine.”

At the dugout, Sherlock has turned to go home. John catches him in a flying tackle. “Oh, no, you don’t,” John says, holding Sherlock around the shoulders and bearing them both down onto the ground.

Sherlock struggles and manages to turn over in John’s arms. “What? John? I thought…”

“I made my choice,” John says simply.

Sherlock blinks, then licks his lips. “Me?” he says, his voice rough.

“You,” John agrees. “You’re worth taking a chance on.”

 

 

~*~

In the foyer at Baker Street there’s an empty laundry basket sitting at the foot of the stairs up to their flat and two fresh – but threadbare – towels over the banister.

“She’s psychic, I swear it,” John says, meaning Mrs. Hudson, their landlady. He starts stripping off his sodden jacket and starting on his pullover. Sherlock hesitates. John is standing there in just his muddy jeans. “Are you okay, Sherlock? With this I mean?”

Sherlock shakes off his mood. “Yes,” he says. “Oh, yes.” He strips down, leaving his underwear on.

John does the same, then throws Sherlock a towel. “Yeah,” John says. “I am _not_ leaving my dirty pants for Mrs. Hudson to wash.”

Sherlock wraps the towel around his hips and mutters, “She’d likely iron them.”

That sets John off giggling, which sets Sherlock off. Sherlock’s giggle is ridiculous. John realizes that he’s never even heard Sherlock laugh – much less _giggle_ \- and vows to at least attempt to make Sherlock laugh as often as possible.

As the giggles taper off, John looks at Sherlock seriously. “This isn’t going to be easy…” John starts, but Sherlock waves a hand to stop him.

“Later,” he says. “Let’s just get clean and have a moment where it’s not the end of the world that you want to shag me, okay?”

“Okay,” John says. He takes Sherlock’s hand and leads him up.

“Get the first shower, I’ll wait.” John waves Sherlock toward the bathroom. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, and John raises his hand, palm out. “Don’t push. I…I don’t want to rush.”

Sherlock goes quietly, for which John is grateful. He’s made his choice. He knows that he wants Sherlock. He knows that he wants Sherlock in his life, he does. But he’s still not sure if it’s the right thing to do.

When John comes out of the shower, clean and dressed in pajama bottoms and a tee shirt, Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the sofa, twisting his hands in his lap.

Before John even opens his mouth, Sherlock speaks. “If you’ve changed your mind, that’s okay. I don’t like it, but I’ll stop harassing you, I swear. If…if that’s what you want.” He heaves a sigh, like he’s done something painful, which John supposes he has.

John sits down next to Sherlock and reaches out to stop the movement of his hands. “I haven’t changed my mind,” he says. “I should. I should stop this right here. It’s crazy, and it’s…I don’t even know. But, I can’t, Sherlock.”

“I…okay. John, I don’t know how to do this sort of thing. This is an area in which I have no experience. None.”

“None?” John can’t decide if that’s horrifying or incredibly arousing. “You’re telling me you’ve never even been kissed? Oh, god.”

“Hmmmm,” Sherlock says, not seeming embarrassed at all. “A girl tried when I was 12, and a boy when I was 13. Frankly, it seemed rather disgusting. I was much more interested in mastering my curveball.”

“Then…then…,” John stutters. “All the seductive…seduction! You were really good at that!”

“TV,” Sherlock says. “I’ve watched a number of soap operas – in various languages – while on international travel teams.”

“And you’ve already said that you wank just about every time you get in the shower!” John is sure he’s losing control of this conversation, if he ever had it in the first place.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, his self-assurance and a touch of arrogance back. “I’m nineteen; it’s one of the ways in which I’m actually normal.”

John looks away. Oh, god. Nineteen. He’d almost forgotten.

Sherlock catches John’s chin in the palm of his hand and turns John to face him. “John,” he says resolutely, “I will continue to be nineteen until January; you will continue to be thirty-four until March, when we will be twenty and thirty-five respectively. This continues, with the number of years between our ages remaining at fifteen throughout.”

John turns his face to the side and kisses the heel of Sherlock’s hand. “I know,” he says softly. “I’m working on it.”

“Good, because I refuse to tiptoe around the issue, even if does make you feel…whatever it makes you feel.” Sherlock sounds quite matter-of-fact.

“Okay,” John says. “But let’s not talk about that right now. Let’s talk about the sexual education of Sherlock Holmes.” John turns his head again and first kisses, then gently bites, Sherlock’s hand. When he turns back, Sherlock’s eyes are wide and there is a light flush across his cheekbones.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” John says, glancing at Sherlock’s mouth, “and it won’t be disgusting, I promise.”

At that, Sherlock tips his head forward, and John kisses him for the first time. And, oh, it’s sweet. John’s kissed a hundred people, men and women both, but this. Just this. The angle is terrible, they’re both tentative and don’t quite know where to put their hands. It’s a short kiss, and John keeps it light, pulling back with a series of smaller, gentler kisses as he goes.

Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter open. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, John.” His voice has deepened a bit.

“I want to…can I take you to bed, Sherlock?” John has to clear his throat. “Come to bed with me.”

Sherlock clears his own throat, then opens his mouth to answer. Nothing comes out, so he just nods and allows John to take his hand and lead him to the bedroom.

 

 

 

~*~

Kissing, John thinks. Kissing is good. He hasn’t kissed this much since he was a teenager himself. He’s had Sherlock in his bed, sprawled out mostly under him for more than half an hour, and they’ve done nothing but kiss. Every time Sherlock, in his awkward way, tries to heat things up, John reins him in and slows things down.

“John,” Sherlock says, pushing John back enough so they can look at each other without their eyes crossing. “Are you actually trying to kill me?” He sounds slightly annoyed.

“Nope,” John says, smug. “I’ve just decided that it’s important to catch you up to all the things you missed.”

Sherlock’s forehead furrows. “What does that even mean?”

John kisses Sherlock softly on the mouth. “It means we go slow. It means that I show you all of this a little at a time.”

“Oh, god.” Sherlock swallows hard. “You _are_ trying to kill me.”

“But what a way to go,” John says, diving back into the kisses. Sherlock relaxes against him, allowing John to take control, and – eventually – John moves down to kiss and bite at Sherlock’s neck, his collarbones, the soft skin at the hinge of his jaw. When Sherlock’s hips begin to rock slowly against him, John pulls Sherlock’s thigh up and drapes it over his own hip, giving Sherlock more space to move.

John tilts his hips to align their cocks to rub against one another through the barely-there barrier of their thin pajama bottoms. It’s a gentle slide at first, but after a few minutes Sherlock moans John’s name and starts to move faster and with more purpose. “Oh,” Sherlock moans. “John, I’m going to…”

“Come on,” John says, and he’s not far from coming either. It only takes him a couple of minutes after Sherlock soaks the front of both their pants to follow, groaning into Sherlock’s sweaty neck.

John strips them both and cleans them up, moving Sherlock’s deeply relaxed limbs this way and that. “You’re beautiful,” John whispers, and Sherlock rumbles in reply. John settles them into the bed and pulls Sherlock close. He’s tired and sated, but his mind is still whirling. He kisses Sherlock on the temple and reminds himself: he’s made his choice, and he’s chosen Sherlock.

~*~

John wakes to the sound of the rain still pattering down. The clock reads just past midnight. The moonlight is streaming in, illuminating Sherlock. Who is drooling and snoring, his hair smashed flat against one side of his face. John gives Sherlock’s forehead a smacking kiss.

“Wha?” Sherlock says, hand coming up to wipe at his face as he heaves himself over onto his side. “Morning?”

“No,” John says. “Come on. Midnight snack.”

Sherlock grunts. As John stands, one of Sherlock’s hands shoots out and grabs John’s wrist. “We shagged.”

John laughs and twists his hand around to pull Sherlock to the side of the bed. “Well observed, detective,” John says. “Go wash your face; you’re a little…hey!”

John pulls his hand back when Sherlock wipes it across his own face, then licks it for good measure. “I’m spitting in your food,” John says as he heads toward the kitchen.

Five minutes later, John is heating soup when Sherlock’s arms slip around his waist. Sherlock’s hair is damp against his neck, and it feels good to finally be able to be close without all of the angst. Sherlock noses up against the back of John’s ear and sighs, seemingly content to just stay there.

“It’s still raining,” Sherlock says against John’s skin.

John sighs. “I know.” He shrugs Sherlock off so he can dish up the soup. When he brings the soup to the table, Sherlock is in one of the chairs, hunched over his phone.

“Weather Channel says two more days,” he says without looking up. “But I got an email from Skip; he wants a meeting. Probably afraid we’ve all gone off the reservation or snapped or something.”

“Haven’t we?” John murmurs.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock says, shoveling half his sandwich into his mouth. “But in a good way, I think.” John just smiles and eats his soup.

~*~

“And some damn _kids_ ,” Skip spits out the word with annoyance, “decided to play _football_ on our field, and the groundskeepers will be working their asses off as soon as the weather clears. I’m stunned I haven’t had to bail any of you out so far, but don’t take that as permission.”

The players giggle and exchange smirks. They’re all practically vibrating with pent-up energy and boredom.

Houston raises his hand, and then lowers it when Skip rolls his eyes. “Uh, Skip…I mean, I was talking to Jake down at the batting cages yesterday, and he says that the three bays at the end are pretty dry ‘cause of the overhang. He said we could have some time on ‘em, if you want.”

Skip stares, blinking. “Bobby, I take back at least half of the things I’ve said about you being dumb. Get on the horn to Jake. Come on, Tides – we’ve got batting practice!”

Skip is practically dancing with excitement, and John can relate. They _all_ need to have something to do. Skip isn’t too far off base about the bail thing. Baseball players are basically overgrown kids, and kids are…mostly stupid, frankly.

“Pitchers, catchers, over here,” Skip says, waving them over. “I only want pitchers doing one round of batting, then we’ll find you some place to get the kinks out of your arms. Catchers, same deal, stay with your unit. Warm ‘em up slow and keep ‘em off the heat as much as you can.”

John has to smile at that. He likes that he and Sherlock – after the “estrangement” – are considered a unit, or battery; a pitcher and catcher that only work together. John likes that in the game, Sherlock is _his_ and he is _Sherlock’s_. Something in him is pleased at that little bit of, not ownership, but _belonging_.

“So,” Sherlock drawls, snapping a ball into his glove with a solid “thwack”. “You’re gonna warm me up slow, huh? Seems there’s a lot of that going around lately.”

John grins at him. “I’m also supposed to keep you off the heat.”

Sherlock grins back. He pulls the ball out of his glove with it positioned in his hand for his practically-light-speed split-finger fastball. He waggles it at John. “Good luck with that.”

~*~

Sherlock makes a grunting noise when his bat connects with the ball and it drives toward the fence along the ground. Every single player has been hitting the ball just as hard as they can on their first at-bats, and Sherlock is no exception. John has to admit that it’s _good_ to feel his arms buzz from the impact. Sherlock, like most pitchers, is a merely adequate batter. He’s good enough and has enough length of leg to generally beat the throw to first. Now and again he hits a double, but his main concern is just getting on-base. Catchers are expected to be slightly better hitters, and John has a solid line-drive that he can count on for a base or two. But at bat is not where either of them shine.

John is a good catcher. He thinks that if he hadn’t taken his two-tour break, he might’ve taken his mitt to the show. At his best he was all the things a catcher needs to be – strong, tough, fearless, and more than a little crazy. He’s still all of those things, but his body isn’t up to the challenge. He has accepted this. If he’d stayed, and if he’d gotten a pitcher like Sherlock at his prime, they could have set the world on fire.

Sherlock still will. John has no doubt. In fact, he’ll be stunned if Sherlock isn’t called up before mid-season. Now that Sherlock’s interpersonal skills are catching up with his talent, he’s lightning poised to strike. Before long, John knows he’ll see at least one of the Orioles’ coaches – or maybe even the GM – sitting in their rickety, fifteen-year-old stands with his eyes on Sherlock. On that day, John is going to do his damnedest to squeeze every bit of talent out of both of them to get Sherlock the chance he deserves. Then that coach or GM or whoever will trip over his own feet to get Sherlock to Baltimore on the next plane.

 

The rain finally quits, and the Tides dress for their first game back. John and Sherlock are the last ones to leave the locker room. “Look,” John says to Sherlock. “This – us - won’t be good for you. Not in the long run.” It is so, so true. “Your first relationship should be simple, not a complicated mess that can destroy everything you’ve worked for. It won’t be pretty if it all comes out.”

Sherlock frowns. “You seem to be laboring under the illusion that I care.”

“You could lose your contract,” John says, exasperated. “You could lose your salary.”

“John,” Sherlock says. “I came into a large trust fund last year, and it doubles when I turn 21. I don’t need the contract, and I most certainly don’t need the salary.”

“But you love the game.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I love winning. I love being extraordinary. I could easily be extraordinary at anything else. I’d rather have you than the game.”

John chokes up at that. Even though Sherlock has just detailed his lack of interest in the game itself, that sort of declaration from one ballplayer to another is…huge. “God, Sherlock. I…”

“Holmes! Watson! I know you’re fucking Brits, but you think you could join us in the dugout for the Anthem?” Skip bellows from the doorway.

“God save the Queen,” John mutters, grabbing his mask and heading out.

~*~

“Stop,” Sherlock moans, and John freezes.

  
He pulls back to ease himself off of Sherlock and back onto his knees on the bed. “What? Are you okay?”

  
Sherlock scoots back far enough to half-sit. He’s flushed and sweaty, and he’s breathing hard.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says. “But you’re not going to get away with it this time.”

“Um,” John says, but he knows what Sherlock’s talking about.

He pokes John in the chest with one long finger, pushing him back. “You are absolutely not going to make me come without you inside me.”

“Um,” John says again. Sherlock’s got a point.

Another poke and John falls back onto his ass. “You’ve been putting off fucking me because of some sort of emotional whatever,” he waves his hand around as if to encompass the whole concept of ‘emotions’. “But you will fuck me tonight. And all the nights after.”

John grabs Sherlock’s hand and kisses his palm. “Or else what?” he teases.

Sherlock winds his fingers through John’s. “There is no ‘or else’. If you don’t fuck me right now, I will wait until you fall asleep and climb on top of you and do it myself.”

“Okay,” John says.

“And another thing,” Sherlock begins hotly, then tapers off. “Okay?”

“Okay,” John repeats. He surges up to pin Sherlock under him. “You can do that climbing thing in the morning, but right now”

Sherlock slaps one hand over John’s mouth. “If you speak one baseball metaphor – one – I will gag you.”

John licks Sherlock’s hand until he pulls it back, grimacing. “If anyone’s gagging anyone,” John says, “it’s me gagging you.”

Sherlock tilts his head up for a kiss. “Anything you want.”

John’s smile is just a little evil before he grabs the back of Sherlock’s hair and pulls him into a scorching kiss that leaves them both breathless.

When they part, Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but John just takes it as an opportunity to kiss him again. Sherlock’s mouth is salty from their sweat; to John it’s delicious. He tilts Sherlock’s chin up and starts lavishing kisses on his pale throat. He licks and bites until Sherlock is squirming under him.

Sherlock’s hips roll against John’s, pressing their cocks together insistently. “Now,” he says.  
“Here we go,” John says, gasping a little.

 

~*~

It’s three weeks later when John sees him. The Tides are leading the Chiefs by one in the third, Holmes pitching against Moriarty. John doesn’t have to look twice; he recognizes the Orioles’ GM, Bradford Duncan in the stands. The man stands out in his crisp khakis and Orioles-orange polo.

John ducks back into the dugout and grabs Sherlock lightly by the elbow. “It’s on,” he says.  
Sherlock blinks. “Duncan?”

“Yup.”

Sherlock goes to peek out at the GM, but John pulls him back. “Doesn’t matter,” John says. “Just play your game. You’ve got this.” Yeah, Sherlock doesn’t need the contract or the money, but he needs to be extraordinary, and this is his time.

“Okay,” Sherlock says, shaking his hands out. “We’ll be back up as soon as Jensen finishes getting struck out by Moriarty.”

“You’ve got this,” John says again.

Sherlock reaches out to squeeze John’s shoulder. “I’ve got this.”

John pokes Sherlock lightly in the chest. “And don’t you dare blow off my calls, either.”

“I’ll save the blowing for when we get home,” he whispers. As the Tides take the field, John smacks Sherlock on the butt.

 

Sherlock’s been gone a day – called up right after he humiliated Moriarty with nine strikeouts in a row and a final score of 6-2 – when Skip Carman motions John into the office. John comes in and sits down across from Skip.

“Well, John,” he says, “this is the worst part of my job, but I’ve got to”

“Let me go,” John says. “I figured.”

Skip grimaces. “It’s just that”

“There are some younger players that need to come up from 2A.” John again completes Skip’s sentence. “Look, Skip,” he says. “I came in and I did my job. I got Sherlock Holmes to the show. That’s good enough for me.”

“Yeah, you had a good run,” Skip says. “And you got god-damn Sherlock Holmes to the show.”

Skip shakes his head disbelievingly. “Frankly, you’re a miracle worker as far as I’m concerned.

You’d make a hell of a pitching coach, John, if you want to stay in the game. I’ve heard there’s gonna be an opening in Kane County soon.”

John smiles, just a little sadly. “It’s time for me to go out gracefully. I think I’m done with the game, but it’s been good to me.”

They both stand and shake hands. “So,” Skip says. “What’re you going to do next?”  
John smiles broadly. “Oh, I’ve got a few ideas.”

 

“So, Sherlock,” the reporter says. “How’s your first month in the show been?” It’s a simple question – simple but dull – but he’s been warned: Sherlock Holmes hates most people and all interviews, and as such, all interviewers. A number of reporters have come back from interviews with Holmes looking like they’d been out covering a war somewhere. He was going to tread lightly, keep his head down, try to survive. The pipe dream of getting some sort of new information to scoop the competition with is dying faster every second.

“Fine,” Sherlock says. He has flat-out refused to say, “I’m just glad to be part of the team”, and

“God willing, we’ll make it to the playoffs” and other sound bites the PR people have tried to instill in him.

“And Baltimore? You like Baltimore?” The reporter is already struggling against the implacable wall that is a bored Sherlock Holmes, and other reporters have noted that he goes from bored to cutting analysis like a Bugatti Veyron goes from zero to sixty.

Sherlock sighs. “It’s fine.”

“Um, ah,” the reporter says. He’s flailing. He can see the end coming – the part where he slinks back to the newsroom to crawl under his desk for a while to lick his wounds just like all the others. “What do you like best about the city?”

Sherlock actually almost smiles. “Johns Hopkins.”

“The hospital?” the reporter is taken aback to have gotten any answer that isn’t “fine” from Sherlock.

“The University.”

The reporter looks at him and blinks slowly. “Why the University?”

Sherlock just gives him a cocked eyebrow. “My boyfriend goes to medical school there.”

The reporter’s eyes go wide. “Um, you know every reporter in town is going to ask you about, you know, coming out, right?”

Sherlock gives a bored sigh. “I’ve already told you; why would I bother answering the same stupid question multiple times? You tell them if it’s so important to you.”

“Oh, okay,” the reporter stammers, but in his head, he hits a Grand Slam, and the crowd goes wild.


End file.
